Far Away From You
by AgentNote
Summary: Santana's heart yearns for one girl and one girl only. When she leaves for the summer, though, how will Santana cope? Old friendships will rekindle and enemies will turn to friends. Main focus on Santana, yet all major characters will have a role.


**A/N: Yep. I'm back. I'm supposed to be on hiatus for NaNoWriMo (for those not in the US, it stands for national novel writing month, in which you try to write 50000 words). Instead, however, I'm using this fanfic as my nano. Hopefully I'll be able to get 50000 and hopefully you'll enjoy it.**

**Note: I know this is a short beginning, but I wanted to get it posted so I know what ya'll think. Chapters will get longer as the story progresses. I would really love reviews and feedback. I also would love to know where you want it to go. This story is going to follow the lives of and/or incorporate all the major characters in some way. I'm already writing an Artie scene. If you're here for just Brittana, it'll happen, but not right away. Other things will happen along the way. I really want this to be a journey of Santana figuring out her sexuality as well as her love for Brittany. Also, this may seem to be Quinntana-y, but I assure you, Brittana will come. :) I love the Quinn/Santana friendship and wanted to focus on that. **

**Note: This is unbeta'd so all mistakes are mine.**

**Disclaimer: Glee does not belong to me.**

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><p>The first day of summer vacation, Santana Lopez has no idea what to do with her life. She'd normally hang out with Brittany; that had always been the plan, ever since third grade, when Santana stopped Jake Norton from calling Brittany stupid on the playground and an instant friendship formed.<p>

But now, sitting alone in her room with a six pack of beer, a picture of Brittany on her nightstand that she can't stand to look at, and a nagging fear that this summer could change everything, Santana can't think of one damn thing to do. She really should, but all of her thoughts keep going back to Brittany. She doesn't know why she allows her mind to wander back to her friend; it does it on its own accord.

But then again. Summer in Lima, Ohio? That's not exactly like summer elsewhere. Ohio—with its farms and family-owned businesses (because really; no one actually gets out of this godforsaken town) and close-minded views and high school show choir teachers who think they can change the world—doesn't exactly scream tourist attraction.

New York, Santana often thinks to herself, would be the place to go.

She's never told anyone (except maybe Brittany, because, after all, she tells her everything and since this is the case, it's not like she can recall every detail she's ever told her), in fear that they'd judge her. It's stupid, really, but Santana's just like the rest of them, all those glee club members whose over-ambitious dreams threaten to burst through the roof of William McKinley High School. She hates to admit it, but she has the same crazy goals as them all. She can't help it though; New York is often referred to as one of the gayest cities in the country, and just the sound of those words together makes her stomach do this weird flip thing that gives her a sense of confusing excitement.

And then there's the fact that her Aunt Estela, who she simply calls Tía, lives on the top floor of a high rise apartment building on the Upper East Side of the city. Santana's never breathed a word of this news to anyone (not even Brittany). She fears that tiny, ugly-sweater wearing, argyle-worshiper freaks like Rachel Berry will one day follow her onto a plane and out of the state. (Really, that girl will do anything to make her Broadway fantasy come true.)

But the point is she has a place to escape to, somewhere to go when Lima gets too unbearable and the last straw is finally pulled.

Santana has always dreamt of going over to Brittany's one night and sneaking her out of her parents' house. Together, they'd steal away on the next flight to New York and find a little studio apartment. They would buy furniture together; buy rugs and lamps and couches and pictures of ducks, because Santana knows that would make Brittany giddily happy. Every day they would sit at their little breakfast nook and drink orange juice and chomp on fancy New York crepes and sausages.

As the years passed, they'd grow old together; Brittany would be a famous dancer and Santana would find _something_ she's good at—she's never really planned that far ahead. (Cheerleading is definitely out of the question; that was only a previously enjoyable hobby and a way to stay popular—when Sue made Quinn captain and stuck Santana at the bottom, her positive views of the sport had a serious decline.)

And a few years after moving in, they'd have kids and eventually grandchildren. Together, they'd watch them grow up to be better people than they ever were.

Together. All of it. They'd do all of it together.

But no, Santana thinks angrily, snapping her head up from her lap to stare out the window longingly. Brittany decided to go away with her parents and little sister for the whole summer. Apparently they were staying with relatives in Holland. Santana had even told Brittany she could stay with her. It had been a sad conversation, and after it, when Brittany walked away, Santana was left with a 'no, but thank you', a light kiss that would have to last her the whole summer, and a hole the size of Texas drilled into her heart.

Sighing, Santana leans back against the headboard of her bed and pops open her third beer of the night. The fake I.D. Puck had managed to get for her sits next to her pillow and she touches it gently, as if thanking it for being the last and only thing in the world she can rely on.

After downing half the bottle, her phone beeps. Picking it up, she opens the one unread text message.

**San, I miss you already. There're ducks in the pond next to my aunt's house and I wish you were here so we could feed them like we always do. Please call me? I know you've been avoiding me. Xxx –B**

Santana throws the phone to the ground, hard. She finishes her beer in three more gulps then throws the bottle to the floor next to her phone. Thankfully she has a carpeted floor and it doesn't shatter. Otherwise, her parents would have woken up and asked why she was crying, drinking, and how she had even gotten beer in the first place.

Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, Santana bends down and picks up her phone. She rereads the message four or five more times than clenches her hands into tight fists. She feels her fingernails digging in to the palms of her skin and flinches slightly.

"Bitch," she whispers to no one in particular. In less than a second, swear word after swear word begins to spew out of Santana's mouth. She curses Brittany for leaving her; for making her find something to do this summer-a summer that, so far, is pretty damn sucky only one day in. She curses Lima for being a bigoted, homophobic town in which she's scared to be herself (whoever that even is). She curses the fact that she's afraid to hold hands with the person she loves. And she practically screams out-at the top of her lungs and in the middle of her bedroom with the window open, no less-the crapload of feelings that originated from when Brittany. Fucking. Rejected. Her.

But then, as quickly as it had started, the viciousness turns to affliction. Anguish. Utter sorrow that feels like it'll never disappear. Because after all, she doesn't hate Brittany. It's not her fault she can't love her back. People can't help what they feel (obviously, Santana thinks to herself, or she wouldn't be in love with a girl). It's not her parents' fault that they too were raised in Lima; that their ideas just are because of _their_ parents, who also happened to live in Lima. It's a cycle. Thoughts circulate, beliefs become engrained, people become hated, people hate.

"Get out. Just go away," Santana pitifully whispers, speaking to her battered soul. She breathes in deeply but mid-sigh her breaths transform into tears and sobs that wrack her body; shake it until she's fallen back on the bed.

"It's just not fair," she voices quietly. Because it's not. It's really not. Why does she have to be practically the only girl in Lima (and who knows, maybe she's the _only_ girl) that God made gay? Sure there's Kurt, but he's a guy. And plus, it's not like the only reason Kurt's getting beat up is because he's gay; it's because he flaunts it. He claims he's bullied and yeah, he definitely is, but he's still there, complaining along the way.

Santana, on the other hand, is safe. For now. She may walk around the school like she owns it (but then again, doesn't she? Quinn's baby incident set her back a hundred and one rungs on the social ladder) but the mask of confidence she wears on the outside—the bitchy smirks, the icy glares, the 'move out of my way or I'll cut you' attitude—is only just that, a mask. It's a façade. She hardly even knows who the real Santana is. Occasionally, glimpses of the girl she once called 'me' will appear. The bitchiness will peep out and sometimes, when she's thinking about Brittany hard enough and when her mind floats to an extra fun glee rehearsal (because really, despite Rachel's incessant ranting and Mercedes' diva bouts, glee isn't half that bad) and when she recalls the touch of Brittany's lips to hers, a drop of nice-Santana will emerge.

Maybe she should try to make nice-Santana the permanent-Santana. She'll admit it; the thought has crossed her mind before. It wouldn't be _so_ bad, right? The glee club would be there for her. Mr. Schue would defend her, and also Miss Pillsbury. They'd surely report any bullying to Figgins, right? And plus. Would a bunch of football jerks _actually_ beat up a girl? Isn't that, like, against some moral code? Then again, to nearly every Lima resident, homosexuality is, too.

Great, Santana thinks. Back to square one.

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><p>"Open up, Q, I know you're in there."<p>

The large, oak door is pulled open forcefully. A certain blonde peeks her head out the doorway, looks both ways down the street, then, when affirming no one's near, pulls the girl in front of her inside.

"Jesus Christ, Santana. What did you do to yourself?"

"Hey hey. Don't bring Jesus into this. He ain't did nothing to you," the Latina slurs. Quinn rolls her eyes. It's not the first time Santana's been drunk off her rocker. It is, however, the first time she's drunkenly shown up at the Fabray residence.

"Shut up," Quinn mutters. Her faith in God is not what it once was. Ever since Beth, Quinn's realized that God won't always be there for you. Though she goes to church with her mother every Sunday, the blonde doesn't quite catch every detail (nor does she care to) of what Pastor Adam says.

"Why are you even here? Are you out of your mind or something? What if my mom was home?"

"Well is she?"

"No."

"Good. Let's move on, hmmm?" Santana stumbles through the foyer and nearly falls head over heels when reaching the staircase. Quinn catches her in time and slowly eases the both of them to the first step. Santana pulls away and curls into herself. Quinn frowns. This isn't exactly what she was expecting.

"What the hell's the matter, S?"

Santana smirks at the use of profanity but between her drunkenness making her hair look wild, her eyes bloodshot, and her face sweaty and disgusting, it comes off as more of a grimace. Quinn nearly laughs—nearly. She holds it in because she knows that if Santana came to see her instead of Brittany, something was seriously wrong.

"Nothin'. Why you think something's the matter?"

"Because you're here."

"And…?"

"You're not with Brittany." Quinn states it as simple as possible. She doesn't flinch, just sits and stares at Santana's face, waiting for the inevitable bitching that always follows anyone making an assumption about Brittany and Santana.

"S?" The blonde says quietly when the girl next to her says nothing. "Come on. Say something. I'm not annoyed that you're here; I just want to know why you are."

Before Quinn can even comprehend what's happening, Santana's falling onto her shoulder. She feels hot tears immediately begin to stain her shirt.

"She went away. She went with her family to Holland for the whole summer. She left me. She _left_ me, Q, just like always. She left. She always leaves. Always…" It's hardly audible, what with the constant cries and the whisper-light tone of Santana's voice. Still, though, Quinn hears it, and it just about breaks her heart. She goes to hug her but hesitates about a millimeter from the girl's shaking body.

She can't do it.

No…but she has to.

Quinn sighs internally. Santana, Brittany, and her used to be the best of friends. Santana and Quinn were perhaps the two bitchiest people in all of McKinley and Brittany was their oblivious sidekick who always kept the two from biting each other's heads off. It worked. The three of them ruled the school. People parted as they walked by. Heads hung low if any eye contact was made. And whenever a cup of that infamous, ice cold slushy was within ten or so feet of someone on the lower end of the social food chain, a geek or nerd or loser or outcast was always seen scrambling through the halls at a pace practically faster than a cheetah's.

Most importantly, students _feared_ them. They were actually afraid. It may sound weird or creepy or oddly sadistic, but Quinn got enjoyment out of that feeling; that feeling of power, of people whispering about her behind her back—it actually gave her a bizarre sort of pleasure.

This is what scares Quinn the most. It was never the baby (though Beth was one of the many things that worried her the most, made her scared and too physically and mentally exhausted to get out of bed each morning). No, it was never that. It's that feeling of power, of utter control over everything.

Quinn shudders. She doesn't want to think about that now, not while Santana's sitting here pouring her heart out about being in love with a girl. It's always been about her—Quinn this, Quinn that. Last year—before mistaken sex with Puck, a game of lies with Finn, and a baby that she never thought she'd have until twenty five years old—Quinn's parents had even made it all about her. They spoiled her, babied her, made everything in the world seem like lollipops and rainbows.

And then she had Beth.

And grew up.

And stopped having the 'Quinn's all that matters' show run twenty-four seven.

And realized her dad was never what she thought he was.

Quinn suddenly feels a rustling beside her and looks up startled. Santana's trying to get away (unsuccessfully, as the many beers she previously consumed have left her with hardly any sense of direction at all).

"Shit that hurt," Santana curses as she, in a panicky haste, runs into a wall. She rubs at her forehead and holds her hands out in front of her, perhaps to try and focus herself.

"Where do you think you're going?" Quinn asks and stands up.

"Home," Santana replies gruffly. "Honestly, I don't even know why I came here in the first place."

"Of course you do," Quinn says. A hint of the dormant, snobby bitch-Quinn rises and she tries as hard as she can to push her away.

"You wanted someone to talk to, someone to vent to about all the crap that obviously has been going on in your life that you're too afraid to tell anybody."

Santana is silent. Her face pales and Quinn smirks inwardly. She knows she's hit the mark, really gotten under her friend's skin. Santana's facial expression just about screams 'oh shit, she knows', but as soon as the look appeared, it's gone. She smiles shakily and swallows.

"Whatever," the Latina answers coolly; clearly trying to brush the comment away like it was nothing. But it is something. Quinn knows it, Santana knows it, and Quinn knows Santana knows it.

"I'm out of here."

"Fine," Quinn says. She's not in the mood to fight her about this. She realizes that if she showed up tonight, chances are she'll be back. They have a whole summer ahead of them; a summer in which there's no Brittany for Santana and no guy for Quinn. Neither of them will be up to socializing with the glee club—again, no Brittany; and Quinn knows she won't be able to have fun with Rachel freaking Berry sitting on Finn's lap the whole time.

"Later, loser."

With that, Santana's out the door and trudging haphazardly down the slate walkway. Quinn peers through the window and watches her get into her car, all the while seemingly infuriated by something. Quinn doesn't know how Santana managed to drive her being so drunk, nor does she want to. She knows she should put safety before friendship and that she should have offered the girl one of the five guest rooms of her parents' mansion (her mother's, actually—it's hard for Quinn to remember; her father begrudgingly gave everything up to the Fabray women and hasn't been heard from since the baby incident).

Walking to her room slowly, Quinn pushes the door open and falls back onto her bed. She knows she should have been more of a help to Santana, but she just doesn't have it in her anymore. She can hardly keep a hold of things going on in her own life, much less anyone else's. She feels bad, she really does, but she's sure that tonight, had she tried to comfort Santana, she would have made things worse; would have ended up calling her some sort of name that would have insulted her and made her lash out. Quinn knows a drunk-Santana can get ugly, and she definitely was not in the mood to cross the bridge of meeting drunk, angry-Santana. That she can save for another night.

Closing her eyes, Quinn's asleep in less than five minutes, her shoes still on and her proper-girl, flowered blouse buttoned up neatly.

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><p><strong>Note: Please, please review or PM me with ideas. Thanks and hope you enjoyed!<strong>


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